


The Threads that Break Us

by Silent_of_Spirit



Series: The Threads of Fate [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: More tags will come, Multi, Rating May Change, Roman AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-03
Updated: 2017-07-18
Packaged: 2018-11-08 16:51:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11085834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silent_of_Spirit/pseuds/Silent_of_Spirit
Summary: Tevinter is an empire with sights set on all of Thedas as a prize. Orlais, The Marches, and Nevarra are all under Tevene rule.Tevinter had set its sights on the city of Arlathan, the last remnant of the crumbling Elvhen empire. Its crystal spires stood tall and proud, a constant mockery and reminder of what the Imperium could not have. They are ‘allies’, as much as anyone can be allies with Tevinter- hidden meanings, sharp tongues, quick wits and political maneuvering to keep themselves apart, both rife with betrayal and greed.Prophecies speak of a wolf, woken to walk among The People again - but destined to be their downfall if he does not overcome his Pride. And now, a man, once a relic of Tevinter's glorious conquest of Andraste and her armies, is said to have returned, bringing death and destruction in his wake.Gladiators, magic, slaves, scholars, nobility, battles of mind and body, inflamed passions, forbidden love, politics and subterfuge and the price of power.And a vigilante who the whispers in the streets name the “Herald of Andraste”, bent on taking down the Empire one notch at a time.





	1. Prophecy

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to the long awaited Roman AU! A brainchild I came up with back in December, it took me a long time to finally get it down in words. This project is incredibly important to me, and, as such, I wanted it to be perfect. I sincerely hope you enjoy, and thank you for checking it out!

She walks, hands bound and chin held high despite the sea of sneering faces and cruel words. She barely manages not to flinch as a stone is cast so near that it grazes her ear, a burning pain erupting where it tears the skin. She will not let them see her fear, these heathens, more monsters than men. She closes her eyes, tries not to focus on the feel of the spear in the small of her back, keeping her moving through the hostile throng of beasts who froth at the mouth and long to see her blood stain the dirt beneath their boots. She failed, the screams of the remnants of her armies reaching her ears above the din as they are slaughtered where they stand... where they continue to fight. She tried. _Oh,_ she had tried.

 

She wonders at the fate of her people - the slaves she freed - the slaves she sent scattered to the winds when she heard tell of the legions bearing down upon them. She knows what will happen - though she dares to hope that they find their freedom, that all they have fought for and gained has not been for naught. A wretched cry tears itself from her throat as she falls, white-hot pain blossoming across her temple. They all cheer as she hits the earth, gasping raggedly when she feels her shoulder crunch upon impact. She is distantly aware of the blood trailing down her face, and through dim vision she sees a stone stained red from where it struck.

 

She is not afraid.

 

The one who holds the spear hauls her to her feet, cruel hands finding purchase in her hair. She cannot hold back the hiss it provokes, prompting a satisfied laugh from the assailant. He releases her when her feet find hold of the earth, shoving her through the parting masses, the revealed path's end at a stake upon a pyre, already heavily burdened with pitch and kindling. She swallows, raises her chin, feeling a drop of blood roll off of her cheek and onto the hardened leather adorning her chest. She does not flinch as they spit upon her, does not look, does not think - her gaze fixed only upon the fate that awaits - steps drawing her ever closer.

 

Dirt gives way to creaking wood, shackles replaced with biting rope as she is thrust against the unforgiving beam, forced to face the horde that slew her armies. She lets her gaze travel over them, harsh and proud, holding her head high. Her eyes fall upon an elf on his knees, head bowed low and arms bound behind him. She feels her heart stutter, and her lips part on a silent plea, begging it to not be so. He lifts his head, eyes of striking blue meeting hers, set into a face she knows all too well. They widen, and he jerks against his restraints, pain writ clear upon his features.

 

“No!” He bellows, and is stricken across the face in response, sending him tumbling sideways into the dirt. He snarls and makes to move against the one who struck him, but he sees the subtle shake of her head, the sadness in her eyes, and he relents. Her heart aches to see him - though she knows that he would have never gotten away. He is too important to them, just as she is. His sword lies broken before him, work forged by loving hands undone. She cannot tear her gaze away.

 

“What a delight to have such an esteemed guest!” A voice booms above the crowd, jeers and angry voices silenced immediately at the sound. A man steps from the throng, handsome face betrayed by the cruelty in his gaze and manner. She lets her eyes fall upon him, narrowing at the mantle of imperator settled on his shoulders. He steps forward with a smirk, reaching for the golden sunburst that hangs from a chain around her neck.

 

“The mysterious Lady of Flame,” he growls, tearing the chain from her body with a snap of his wrist. “One wonders why you do not call fire upon us now?” His smirk turns feral, and he leans close enough that she can smell his foul breath. “Perhaps your power has abandoned you, just as your Maker.” She does not meet his gaze, instead turning back towards the elf in the dirt, watching her with anguish. She closes her eyes. The imperator clicks his tongue, taking her chin in his hand. “How different life could have been had you not spurned me all those years ago,” he says, face softening. “You could have been happy. Treasured.” He pauses, face contorted in confusion. “But you chose a life of hardship, and look where it has led. A failed rebellion, crushed beneath the heel you could have served.” She tears her chin from his grasp, her eyes filled with flame.

 

“I preferred poverty to the _chains_ you offered,” she spits, finding her mark on his cheek. He chuckles, wiping the spittle from his face and tossing the sunburst into the dust. She squeezes her eyes shut, wills the screams to stop.

 

“Do you have any last words, Lady?”

 

Her eyes snap open, and she fixes him with the full power of her gaze and all of the anger beneath. “This is not the end,” she whispers. “More will rise where I have fallen, and they will finish what I started. You will burn, Corypheus, you and your precious Empire.”

 

“Perhaps,” he smirks. “But you will burn first.” He gestures to someone behind her. “Now, let us see if the Mistress of Fire can indeed control the flames!” he roars, met with the answering din of the crowd.

 

She hears the torch clatter against the wood of the pyre and she feels the heat that erupts upon contact. She meets the elf's eyes one last time. Her elf.

 

“Andraste!” he screams.

 

 _Shartan_. The breath to form his name is stolen as she is consumed.

\----------------------

 

She woke with a start, jolting upright in her bed and trying to escape the tangle of blankets trapping her legs. She fell to the cold floor with a thump, panicking as she patted her skin now raised with gooseflesh. She was whole. Not on fire. Her shaking subsided somewhat, but the terror of it was still fresh, the melting of her skin still present at the forefront of her mind.

 

 _Not my skin... Andraste's_ _,_ Liahra reminded herself, shaking her head to clear the haze of fear that had drugged her. Her legs were still bound in the blankets and she extricated herself carefully, tossing them back in an undignified pile on her bed. Her brow was wet with sweat, her hair damp as she ran her shaking fingers through the long golden locks. She tried to regain her breathing, committing every detail of the dream to memory.

 

She pushed herself up from the marble, inhaling the night air deeply through her nose, eyes drawn to the fluttering curtains of her balcony. She could distantly see the shimmering lights of the crystal spires of Arlathan beyond the gauzy fabric, and she looked at them for a moment before pulling on a robe draped over a chair and stepping out. The air was clearer out there, the cool night breeze a balm to her heated skin. The forest was full of life and noise despite the late hour, the rustling and chirping of crickets and other creatures sounding through the underbrush. It was peaceful, their estate disconnected from the troubles of the world, though the spires were always visible in the distance.

 

She could see the outline of the arena there too, out of place in the beautiful skyline - a reminder of Tevinter influence rapidly spreading. It left a sour taste in her mouth and she forced her gaze away, instead watching the water flow from the falls beneath her. Her mind was churning with unease, setting her stomach roiling. The dream, recent events, the volatile political state of the world - none of it sat well with her. Things were getting worse by the day, and she no longer knew what to expect. Her strong words fell on deafened ears. The low people suffered while the influence of the rich and powerful dwarfed them all, falling all too easily to Tevinter customs.

 

Why?

 

This was not the world Andraste fought for... died for. Were her ashes still smoldering when they undid the hard work she had wrought? Did they leave Shartan to mourn their losses before they again tossed him and their people in chains? _Why_ had they fought at all? What good had it brought? The world was corrupt and falling to the expanding Empire, helpless in the jaws of the beast. They had all given up, content to take part in the destruction of the world as they knew instead of crushed beneath heel. Andraste and Shartan had been a statement - nothing more.

 

The dream weighed heavily on her heart, a wearied sigh forcing its way past her lips. That day was over a thousand years ago, long before her birth, but she was _there_. She _was_ Andraste - and that unsettled her more than the rest of the vision. But was it real? How could she say? Anyone who had been alive on that day was dead and gone, and there were now only stories and legends, unknown if the truth was reflected in any of them. She closed her eyes and sighed, leaning against the balcony rail as she let the sound of the falls soothe her frayed nerves. She needed to consult Aluriel.

 

She turned from the balcony and returned to her rooms, the fragrance of her favored incense familiar and soothing. It was still far too early to venture to the temple, but she also knew that sleep would not be forthcoming. She paced beside her bed for a moment before restlessness spurred her steps to the corridor. She ghosted through the halls on silent feet, her path painted by the moonlight shining through the pillars. Around her she could hear the muffled sounds of slumber, the house alive even at such an hour. It was a comfort to know she was not alone, no matter how she felt it.

 

Her fingers idly trailed over the carved pillars, stories of a thousand years etched beneath her hand, and she wondered. Were all of these stories true? Were they events that transpired, etched to forever be remembered, or were they fabrications of a tale so distant that the original would be considered farce in the face of the glory of the new? How was one to know? The paths of time, unsteady as they were, could not be traveled or remembered save by those who lived them - so how could any one know what was real? Her mind was still trapped in the dream, the reality that she was so sure of in the moment, but now doubted. There was no glory there, no breastplate of gleaming silver or divine retribution, only dirt and dust and _pain_.

 

She paused and turned her gaze to the carvings there beneath her fingers, trying to pry what truth she could from them by will alone. There was none to be found, of course, only intricate and exquisite artistry unrivaled by anything she had seen previously. There was no life or spark in them - she could not force them to breathe and move and speak to her their truths. It was never a thing she had even questioned, until now. How much can change so quickly - things she once knew only as fact now twisted into veiled mystery.

 

She tore her gaze away, praying the churning of her thoughts would cease and offer her peace, if only for a few fleeting hours. She glanced down one of the darkened halls to her left, moonlight barely filtering in from the door at the far end, slightly ajar. She followed the shadowed path, the stone beneath her feet familiar. The door did not protest beneath her touch, swinging open easily to the garden beyond. Her garden. It was her sanctuary and place of comfort, a retreat when the world became too much to bear. The air was fragrant with the scent of lilies and embrium, accompanied by the more subtle aromas of Andraste’s Grace and elfroot, all flowering beneath the towering tree that dominated the center of the garden. The twining branches reached for the stars, reminiscent of the lines on her face.

 

She placed a hand on the rough bark, letting it center her mind and clear it of troubling thoughts. A quiet voice cut through her reveries then, low and laden with the kind of inflection that suggested the telling of a story. It sounded familiar; comfortable, even. She peered carefully around the tree, a fond smile crossing her face. Krem sat on a bench sewing in a patch of moonlight, an open book on the bench beside him, the enchanted pages narrating aloud.

 

“The Chronicle of Shartan?” Liahra asked. Krem startled, jerking back and very nearly dropping the needle he had just begun to thread.

 

“L-ladyship!” he managed to stammer, moving to stand. Liahra laughed.

 

“Please, Krem, don’t let me disturb you. I like watching you sew.” She paused, the corners of her mouth pulling up in amusement, “Though I have to admit, your choice of reading is… curious.” He flushed, reaching over to snap the book shut. Liahra’s eyes followed the motion, but she made no move to stop him, instead watching him with a level stare and cocked brow.

 

“He - uh - he helped Andraste to free the slaves,” he finally said, flushing further under the scrutiny of her gaze. She made a sound like a hum in the back of her throat.

 

“Well over an age ago, yes, and now Tevinter’s Empire stretches over most of the world. What did Andraste and Shartan truly accomplish?” There was no venom or bitterness behind her words, only the sort of quiet curiosity that led to sleepless nights of contemplation… as now.

 

“They give us hope,” Krem said simply, dropping his gaze to the fabric in his lap. Liahra’s brow furrowed.

 

“Hope?” she asked hesitantly, rolling the word on her tongue as though it were foreign. “Even after all this time?” Hope was not a concept she was entirely familiar with, at least not in any significant way. Her hopes were silly, petty things, usually restricted to hoping the road would not be so dusty on the way to market, or that the peaches would be ripe. She was unaccustomed to hardship, and thus the true weight of the word easily escaped her grasp.

 

He chuckled softly, picking at a loose thread in his stitching.

 

“May I speak plainly, Ladyship?” Liahra moved to sit beside him, taking one of his hands in her own.

 

“Always,” she said. “I would never wish you to hide your true thoughts from me. Friends do not do such.” She kissed his knuckles with a kind smile. Krem watched with fascination, cheeks burning. He cleared his throat and averted his gaze, gently extricating his hand from her grasp.

 

“A-ah, well, for a slave, hope is - was - our lifeblood. For someone used to the luxury of nobility, it can be a difficult concept.”

 

Liahra pursed her lips.

 

“You’re not wrong,” she said with a wry smile, which quickly faded as she tried to imagine enduring the life of a slave. She could feel Krem’s eyes on her, assessing. She met his gaze after a few silent moments. “Can you help me to understand?” She asked quietly, almost shy. “Only if it does you no harm to speak of it, of course,” she added. He looked staggered by the change.

 

“I can try, Ladyship,” he replied.

 

She watched him as he thought. She _needed_ to know why the tale of Shartan inspired so many; why, a thousand years later, the words of his story offered hope. She felt lost - adrift in a sea of understanding she had no way to grasp, her dream and this coincidentally-timed conversation the only things keeping her afloat.

 

But _why_?

 

“A slave is allowed nothing, save what their dominus provides. Our thoughts, our dreams, our bodies - all are property to be used, to be broken, to be taken.” He paused, brow furrowing at some distant memory. She felt a pang in her heart for the horrors he must have once endured. “It is so easy to waver in our devotion to life when we have nothing of our own, even the sanctuary of our mind. To be made to so easily bend to the merest whim? Well, there are many who succumb to despair. Too many.”

 

“And yet?” she whispered. He gave a small smile.

 

“Every slave knows the stories of Andraste and Shartan. How a commoner and one once bound in chains nearly drove the Empire to its knees. We dream of the same retribution, whispering their names that they might give us the strength to persevere so we may, too, be free one day.”

 

“A name can hold such power?”

 

“For a slave.”

 

“But it is just a name.” Her brow furrowed.

 

“It's not,” he said with a patient smile. “It is a symbol. A small glimmer of hope that we cling to when we have nothing else. It is what's behind the name that holds the power. They _rebelled_. They broke their chains, and the chains of many, and nearly succeeded.”

 

“But they failed.”

 

“Yes, but they _tried._ And one day another will do the same, but they may _win_.”

 

“You bank your hope on a mere possibility?” she asked.

 

“Perhaps I do not see it as a possibility, Ladyship, but an inevitability.” There was a desperate wish for understanding in her eyes. “There will always be someone who sees the state of the world differently. Who will refuse to bow to the rank corruption and try to change it.” He watched her carefully for a moment. “ _You_ are one such person.” The words were hesitant, as though he feared her judgment. Her gaze flitted to the ground.

 

“Words are all that fall from my lips, Krem. I have no power to change things.”

 

“All due respect, Ladyship, but words hold power. Words are where change begins.” She met his eyes, something she couldn't identify glimmering in the depths. “Words can influence others, change minds, offer comfort and _hope_. There are those who when hearing such words find themselves emboldened and take a stand against tyranny. You think you speak for yourself, for your views, but you also give voice to those who are afraid to say the same. You give them courage to fight back, knowing they are not alone.”

 

“It is not the name, nor the words that hold power and hope...” she said.

 

“It is what lies behind. It is what they offer,” he finished for her. She let her breath out in a rush.

 

“Thank you, Krem,” she said, gracing him with a dazzling smile. He bowed his head, the color high on his cheeks. “I doubt I will ever truly understand, having never been in your place, but you have helped me to come much closer. And eased my tumultuous thoughts.”

 

He averted his gaze with a smile of his own, resuming his needlework. “I am glad to have been of some small assistance, Ladyship, though I require no thanks. I should be thanking you; I’ve never known many nobles who actually attempt to understand what they haven’t had to experience.”

 

“Is it truly so rare?” she asked with some bewilderment. At his hum of assent, she huffed. “Would that more people would do so, then.”

 

“The world would certainly be a better place, I'm sure.”

 

They fell into a comfortable silence, the sort born of contemplation. She mulled over his words, searching the enigma in her mind for a place to settle them. It was a piece for the puzzle that became only more complex the longer she pondered it.

 

And what a puzzle it was. She only wondered why _now_? What was it about this juncture in time that called for such visions, that called everything she thought she knew into question? She needed clarity, but knew she would find none on her own. Krem cleared his throat, startling her from her reveries. His eyes were upon her face, searching.

 

“Is everything alright, Ladyship?” His voice was soft, hesitant, but a familiar comfort that tethered her to the moment, allowing escape from her thoughts.

 

“I believe so. Just... many questions that I cannot answer,” she murmured. “I will need to speak with Aluriel today, I think. Perhaps we can go to market after, if you would like. I'm sure you need more fabric.”

 

“I - ah,” Krem rubbed the back of his neck, “That's not necessary, Ladyship. But, thank you.” She eyed him with a raised brow, a smirk pulling at the edges of her lips.

 

“I would think you used to receiving gifts from me by now,” she said. “Fine, then, I am buying you fabric for purely selfish reasons. I could use a few new pillows.” She grinned as he pressed his lips into a fine line, clearly fighting the urge to smile himself.

 

“As you wish, Ladyship.”

 

The cresting sun bathed the garden in morning light, the plants awash with warm color. The house seemed to come awake all at once, a brief collective breath before erupting with activity. The servants would be preparing the morning meal, she knew, rising with the sun to see the estate's needs met. The harts and horses would be getting brushed down, fresh hay and oats laid out for their consumption. Routine. Familiarity. Knowing allowed her to further tether herself to where she was. She would find no answers by lingering in her mind, only confusion. She needed the grounding. She took a breath, pushing her musings away to where she could reach for them later, rising from the bench.

 

“I shall ready myself for town,” she said, tossing a smile over her shoulder. Krem nodded.

 

“I will see to it that the cart is prepared for our departure, Ladyship.”

 

“I am forever grateful for your counsel and your friendship.” She whispered, crossing the garden to disappear into the hallway beyond. His eyes were drawn to the forgotten book lying beside him, and he traced the letters embossed on the cover.

 

“ _A name can hold such power?”_

 

He opened it, flipping through the pages until he found his place.

 

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

 

Liahra fell silent when they broke the treeline, as she always did. When Krem first came into her service two years ago he told her he thought she was awed at the way the city was revealed, crystalline spires reaching for the clouds, shimmering with beauty and magic. Now, he knew it was the arena that drew her gaze, a black mark on the shining city she so loved. She forced her eyes away, leaning back into the cushions of her seat as she waved her fan in lazy motions.

 

“You seem preoccupied today, Ladyship,” Krem said carefully, conscious of the driver. Her gaze flicked to him for a moment before returning to the sea beyond the cliff road they were upon.

 

“Quite.” There was a sense of finality to the word, and she surprised him when she spoke again. “My uncle says there is dissent in the Senate. More senators are turning to the influence of the Empire, those who resist dwindling in number with each passing day. He surmises that he will soon be the last to oppose Tevinter rule.”

 

“What of your betrothed?” he asked, brow furrowing.

 

“Tamlen? For now he is still with my uncle, but he and I both suspect that he will be too easily swayed when the majority turn. He is young, and has advisors that favor the Imperium.”

 

“Yet he is smitten with you, Ladyship, if I may be that bold.” Liahra's lips quirked in amusement. “Do you not think you could convince him otherwise?”

 

“I think you overestimate my ability of persuasion,” she replied with a raised brow, turning her gaze to him.

 

“I think you don't give yourself enough credit,”

 

She narrowed her eyes slightly, but a good-natured smile rested on her lips.

 

She said no more, eyes turning forward as they approached the outskirts of the city. It was a quiet sort of day, the usual bustle muted and lacking. There had been a rise in the number of Tevinter citizens settling in their designated quarter of the city, and with them, a rise in Imperium soldiers to protect their people. It caused an uneasy air to fall over the once-lively Arlathan, fear of slavery and retribution rank in the less affluent sections of the city.

 

How times had changed. Once, one would hardly find a difference between those of wealth and those without. Equal opportunities for all of the Elvhen People, regardless of status, was once the shining cornerstone of Arlathan tenets. Then Tevinter, rife with greed and power, pressed them until there was little semblance of what the Elvhen Empire once was. They resembled the Imperium more with each passing year, and soon would be a part of it if Tevinter had its way. Influence was a powerful and dangerous drug, causing those who were once so proud to forget themselves and those who lay below.

 

She tossed some shining coins to the urchins running beside the cart, smiling at their squeals of joy and thanks. Her heart ached for them, that this was the only life they had ever known. She wished she could bring back the Arlathan of her childhood - but time would not allow it. Would that the pathways of time could be so easily called upon...

 

The dream - vision - pulled again at her thoughts, and she couldn't help but wonder how different the world would be had Andraste succeeded.

 

“ _This is not the end_ _,_ _”_ the apparition had said - and it had been with such _conviction_. How could she have been so sure? Her mind again swirled in turmoil, trying to connect the pieces she yet lacked. She felt _lost._

 

“We've arrived, Ladyship.” Krem's voice cut through the haze, concern present in the set of his jaw. Liahra blinked heavily, the bright marble pillars of the Oracle's temple catching her attention.

 

“Oh,” she breathed. She took his offered hand, gathering the trails of her garment in the crook of her arm so as not to trip. “Thank you.” He nodded, but seemed reluctant to let go, and she could feel his assessing gaze. “I am well, Krem, I promise,” she said with what she hoped was a comforting look. “I am sure that Aluriel will help me to make sense of things, as she always does.”

 

“Of course,” he conceded, releasing her hand. “I will wait with the cart.”

 

She hated lying to him, but how could she explain her thoughts when she could not accomplish such a task for herself? She half-hoped that Aluriel would tell her it was nothing - that she was reading far too much into a random occurrence. But the other half? She didn't want to admit it, but she wanted it to _mean_ something. It was too strange to be simple chance.

 

With each step further into the temple, she took notice of the silence, pausing to take in her surroundings with puzzlement. It was empty- vacant of those who frequently sought shelter and healing. Even the acolytes were absent, the lack of shimmering silver robes strangely unsettling. She tried to quell her unease, raising her chin as she continued on her path.

 

She rounded a corner, nearly screaming as she came face to face with a lanky boy she knew all too well. She paused to catch her breath, heart pounding behind her breast.

 

“I startled you,” he stated in that same flat voice that seemed to accompany every word he spoke.

 

“Compassion,” she greeted him, albeit slightly breathless.

 

“Knots, twisting and pulling so tightly it blurs, a need for unraveling, understanding, seeing. Aluriel can help.” The spirit tilted his head, fingers plucking at the threading of his tunic.

 

“Yes,” Liahra said quickly, “Is she here?”

 

“Panic, seizing, gripping until she can hardly breathe - why has it been so long? Close the temple, send the acolytes away until it passes. Watch. Breathe.” Liahra's brow furrowed at the words. “I helped her understand.”

 

“Who, Cole?” The name the spirit had chosen slipped from her lips. “What has happened?”

 

“The Oracle sleeps, visions flooding her mind with noise so I can't see. I cannot help her, but I helped the First. She was afraid. Now, she watches.” He fixed his wide gaze on Liahra, seeming to consider her for a moment. “I can help. I will watch so she can untangle your knot.” She opened her mouth to respond just as he blinked out of sight. She released the breath she had taken, wondering at this new turn. The timing was... uncanny. Many things seemed to be transpiring all at once, leaving only more questions.

 

Her heart was still pounding, anticipation building beneath her skin. It itched, pressing at her with burning insistence. It spurred her forward, clipped steps echoing off the walls and replacing the eerie silence. She rounded another corner, halting before a nondescript door. She began to reach, but paused. She was suddenly unsure if it was wise to pursue answers. Were they not veiled for a reason? Again that word pressed at her mind, leaving her frustrated and desperate.

 

_Why?_

 

The door swung open. Revealed was a woman clad in a garment of white gossamer with silvery curls, usually immaculate, falling instead in loose tendrils around her face and shoulders. Her eyes widened slightly, though the rest of her face remained carefully restrained beneath her usual mask of impassivity.

 

“Liahra,” she said simply, her voice carrying the melodic inflection Liahra had come to know as a disguise. She was worried and attempting to smother it so that no one would see.

 

“Aluriel.” She looked pointedly at the woman's state of disarray, a sight which, for her, was remarkably unusual. She stepped to the side, ushering Liahra into the room before closing the door soundly behind them. “The Oracle-”

 

“Is taken with visions.” Aluriel struck a long match, the fire briefly illuminating her features. She reached to light the incense placed within hanging bowls, extinguishing the match when the fragrant smoke began to tumble over the gilded edges. “I suspect a new prophecy,” she said at last, lowering herself to a plush cushion that sat on the stone. Liahra's eyes widened, her breath momentarily stolen.

 

“Why now?” she whispered. “She has not-”

 

“Since she spoke of Fen'Harel, yes. This will be the first.”

 

“She has already spoken,” Liahra said, no query in her tone.

 

“Some.” Aluriel's gaze was hard. “You know I may not speak of it. Ask, and I will send you hence with no insight as to the message of your dream.”

 

Liahra bit back the questions lingering on her tongue.

 

“I am only concerned,” she offered. Aluriel's face softened and she gestured to the cushion opposite.

 

“There is no need for such sentiment. I am fine, and so, too, shall the Oracle be when recovered.” She took Liahra's hands in her own, studying the lines of her palm. “It is you who are deserving of concern, da'elgara. You have never before sought my counsel for your dreams.”

 

“I've never had the need,” she said quietly. She could feel Aluriel's gaze searching her face.

 

“It weighs on you heavily.”

 

“It is... confusing,” she whispered, a hazy fog creeping into her mind and vision.

 

“Allow me to assist. Perhaps together we may glean some knowledge.” She sounded far away, as though across a distant field.

 

“What is -” Liahra tried to say, her tongue and lips too heavy to form the words.

 

“Hold on to me.” The words barely registered. “Do not fight it.”

 

She was falling, lost in a void of feeling that threatened to crush the air from her chest. She was shrouded in darkness, intermittently illuminated by brief, flickering flashes of light and memory. Panic washed over her as she tried to gain her bearings, to find some semblance of familiarity in this alien realm. There was a sort of prodding at the edge of her consciousness, begging her to permit entry. She recoiled from the sensation, feeling as though she were spinning out of control, grasping desperately for something to anchor her. The prodding returned, more insistent, and she allowed it passage.

 

“The dream, da'elgara. Ma ghilana. Show me.” The voice banished the chaos, and all was still - a strange sort of anticipation lingering in the air, as though waiting for her to proceed.

 

_The... dream?_

 

Her thoughts were disjointed and difficult to grasp, quick to flee as she scrambled for purchase.

 

_The dream._

 

She summoned the words with more conviction, images blinking in and out of her mind's eye. There was a flash of gold, a sense of familiarity in the shape of it, and she reached, tumbling into the setting as if truly present.

 

She was not in the body of Andraste, but standing atop her pyre, overlooking the seething masses. The horde of beasts parted, jeering and calling for death - for blood and justice - _vengeance_. She was there, the woman herself - Andraste. How easily she could see now, the influence this woman wielded, pride in her bearing despite the crushing defeat and the inevitability of her fate awaiting her on the pyre. She moved with such _purpose_ \- embracing what was to come instead of faltering in the face of it.

 

There were some, Liahra could see, who would not look upon her, shame blatantly present on their features. One who reached when she was struck to the earth, arm jerked back by another with a sneering face. The throng, seemingly whole when she embodied the woman, now looked divided from where she stood. It was clear which soldiers yet held respect for a woman deemed a living legend, disapproval writ plain upon them.

 

Yet none stepped forward, save one, commanding, proud, cruel. Liahra remembered his face and the way his fingers felt on her flesh. It was as vivid as if she were still inhabiting Andraste, the disgust curdling in her stomach as he stepped near.

 

She watched in rapt fascination as the events again replayed themselves, unable to tear her sight from the woman of flame. In her eyes were unyielding steel and righteous fury, cowing those who stood too near despite the target of her gaze.

 

“ _This is not the end.”_ It was little more than a whisper, but Liahra felt the echo of it in her very soul. _“More will rise where I have fallen, and they will finish what I started. You will burn, Corypheus, you and your precious Empire.”_

 

The dream vanished, and she felt herself being pulled rapidly through a shadowed tunnel, the air swept from her lungs. She tried to call out, to scream, but no sound came. There was a sense of _wrong_ and then she was tumbling again, coming back to herself with gasping breaths.

 

_The temple._

 

She tried to calm the hammering of her heart, returning to the darkened room, now hazy with the remnants of cloying smoke. Aluriel's penetrative gaze rested on her face, the grasp on her hands nearly painful. She released them the moment Liahra's eyes met hers, rising in one smooth, graceful motion.

 

“Come,” she said crisply. “Let us see what insight we have gained.”

 

Liahra rose in a much less dignified way, mind reeling from the incense. “There was some to be found, then?”

 

“Perhaps.” Aluriel passed through a gauzy curtain. Liahra hurried after, grasping for the trailing fabric of her clothes that threatened to trip her.

 

“Would you care to share your thoughts, or is your aim to remain cryptic?In which case you are succeeding quite spectacularly.”

 

Aluriel did not even spare a glance over her shoulder.

 

“You need fresh air to clear your mind, first and foremost.”

 

“Aluriel, please,” Liahra rasped, catching her by the arm. Her gaze snapped to Liahra's hand before she met her eyes. They stood silently in the hall for several minutes. “I have to know.”

 

Aluriel sighed.

 

“It is... difficult to decipher,” she muttered, averting her eyes. “It was unlike any dream I have ever walked.” Liahra's brow furrowed.

 

“How?”

 

“In a dream, there is always a tell, something to give it away as a dream. But that...” She trailed off.

 

“It was real.”

 

Aluriel nodded.

 

“It muddies my interpretation. It is difficult to say whether there was a message meant for you, if it was a scene you were simply meant to see, or if it was a random occurrence with no meaning at all.”

 

“But you have an idea,” Liahra urged.

 

“I -” She paused and took a breath. “The timing of your dream is - well - it is what gives me pause. I do not believe this to be by mere chance. You were meant to see this vision, though for what purpose, I am unsure.”

 

“I thought the same,” Liahra said softly.

 

“I am sorry, Liahra. I had hoped to offer more clarity but this is beyond my realm of expertise. I would need to consult the Oracle.” It was there again, the melodic cadence. She met Aluriel's eyes.

 

“What aren't you telling me?”

 

“I have told you all I know,” she replied, voice hard.

 

“No,” Liahra retorted. “You ended the dream early. You saw something or -” She narrowed her eyes, attempting to summon the memory, the final words echoing in her mind. “Corypheus.” The name left her lips as little more than a breath, but she saw the reaction it provoked, quelled too late.

 

“Liahra -” Aluriel started, voice cautious.

 

“What meaning does that name hold?” she demanded. She watched the mask fall away, and was stricken by the sorrow that took its place.

 

“The world now walks the din'anshiral, da'elgara.”

 

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

 

Da'elgara- little sun. An obscure reference to Liahra's canon nickname, Sunshine.

Ma ghilana- Be my guide.

Din'anshiral- A journey of death.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed reading. This project will consume much of my time and energy, as it is something I am incredibly excited about and invested in. That being said, I am chronically ill and frequently suffer from writer's block, so updates will very likely be irregular. I would appreciate your patience <3
> 
> Please, please, PLEASE remember to comment if you enjoyed. It can be utterly incoherent or three exclamation points in a row, but comments are my life blood and give me the courage and motivation to keep writing. 
> 
> Now for a blurb thanking my truly incredible beta, Keturagh. She helped me to make this a reality with her frequent support and reminders to keep writing. Not only that, she helped me correct my million grammar mistakes and fix pieces that didn't make much sense. She is a truly wonderful person and I am lucky to have her as a beta and a friend. Go check out her writing! She's incredible.
> 
> If you would like to poke me or prompt me or yell at me or freak out over things with me, my tumblr is: silent-of-spirit.tumblr.com
> 
> I love making new friends!


	2. Council

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> He rises, brazen, bold. A man once thought lost again comes to power, wielding a weapon of the gods and carrying their fury in his fist. He claims glory and speaks of truths not yet shown false. We'er he walks, destruction will follow and all will see the world razed to ash.
> 
> \- Prophecy of the Oracle of Arlathan

Denerim – One year later

_Council of the noble houses of Ferelden - Throne Room_

 

“And just what are we supposed to do?” The voice of Fergus Cousland rose above the din, “We have been secreting refugees from the Marches into Ferelden for _months_. Yes, the Couslands have ships but we have no naval force. It was never necessary.”

 

“Yet now Tevinter presses ever further, and are just across the sea! How long do you think it will take them to bridge that short distance and land upon our shores? We _need_ your ships, Cousland!” It was Rendon Howe who spoke, fire blazing in his eyes and words.

 

“Shipping vessels, all,” Fergus retorted, slamming his open palm on the table. “Small and quick, perfect for securing refugees, but nigh impossible to fortify. Even if we had the time or the resources to convert them, they would not last in a true naval battle! Not against the Imperium and her mages!”

 

“And what of the Frostbacks?” Arl Teagan leaned forward in his chair, fingers tapping impatiently on the polished wood. “Just last week my scouts reported isolated Tevinter mages on this side of the mountains. They are finding paths.”

 

“Isolated only. Any paths they would have found would be impossible for a full army to pass without native knowledge.”

 

“So we are to just write it off? They _found_ a way through. Who is to say they will not simply clear it with magic?”

 

“The sea to the North is the more pressing issue! With the full weight of Orlais' navy behind them-”

 

“We do not have the resources to form a navy of our own!”

 

“Nor do we have the soldiers to fight on two fronts!”

 

“The sea is more-”

 

“You are a fool if you think they cannot blast through the Frostbacks with their spells!”

 

Chaos. It was chaos. The incessant arguing had finally seemed as though it were dying, until he realized it wasn't. It was becoming completely circular, voices rising in anger. There was nothing left save incoherent yelling that no longer held any relevance to the topic at hand. Alistair rubbed his temples against the pressing headache, his crown lying forgotten on the table before him.

 

He looked around the room, taking in the impassioned voices and fury of the nobles gathered. Many of them now stood, leaning over the table in threat to assert some sort of dominance over their current vocal opponent. Chaos. The only one silent, besides him, was his friend and advisor – the commander of his armies. He looked over to where Cullen sat, arms crossed and features hard. He hated these meetings even more than Alistair did – which was a feat, to be sure.

 

Alistair reached for the metal plate in front of him, still heavily burdened with food. He tossed it behind his chair with some force, the entire table falling silent at the clatter of metal on stone. His hounds clambered to the abandoned food as Alistair lifted his gaze to the gathered company, sharp and _tired_. He thought himself a poor excuse for a king, having neither the patience nor temperament to deal with things of this nature.

 

“Cousland is right,” he began, silencing the beginnings of several retorts with a raised hand, “Ferelden has never had need of a navy, and we cannot re-purpose shipping vessels to accommodate war. It's just not possible. And according to our Commander, we do not have the ground forces to fight on both fronts. We are in a box, gentlemen.”

 

“Then what are we _supposed_ to do, King?” Alistair ignored the sneer in the words of Rendon Howe. He fixed him with a hard stare.

 

“We must make an alliance.”

 

There was silence for several long minutes – _sweet Andraste, blessed silence_ – before a ripple of laughter seemed to shake through the men. He had expected this response, honestly. He met Cullen's eyes, the Commander’s brows drawn together in question.

 

“Who is left to ally ourselves with?” Cullen asked the moment the laughter died.

 

“Quite! Antiva will not honor such a thing the moment they are threatened, fickle bastards. Rivain has no army, the remainder of the Marches will soon be under Tevinter control, the Anderfels are too far off to be any real help, and the Qunari far to the North help no one but themselves.” Fergus looked genuinely concerned, studying the king as if he had gone mad.

 

Alistair supposed that it may not be entirely off the mark. He was questioning his own sanity at this point.

 

“There are still the Elves.”

 

If it were at all possible, a more palpable hush spread over the hall. The crackling of the fire became nearly deafening in the sudden silence.The dozen hard gazes upon his character caused his chest to constrict in a most unpleasant way. He had also anticipated _this_ reaction, although he hadn't thought it would affect him quite to this degree.

 

“The... _Elves_?” Howe almost choked on the words, but Alistair was grateful to the sour man for finally breaking the quiet turmoil.

 

“All due respect, Alistair, but are you quite well?” It was Teagan who spoke then, his gaze fiercely disapproving.

 

“Very well, in fact,” he said, forcing joviality into his tone, “Thank you for your concern.”

 

Silence again. Alistair sighed, sagging back into his chair.

 

“I can see why you would think that, my king, but-” Fergus started to say, abruptly cut off by Howe.

 

“But the Elves are no better than Tevinter! They allow magic to reign in their cities, letting _demons_ walk _unrestrained_ among the populace.”

 

“You have seen this with your _own_ eyes? You know this to be true?” Alistair’s patience was wearing thin. He forced himself to sit up straight, keenly narrowing his eyes. “All we know of Arlathan is speculation and rumor. Not a _single one_ of us has been there.”

 

There was disapproval writ clear on Cullen's features, albeit he leaned forward.

 

“The _king_ has a point,” Cullen said. “The Elves have successfully repelled every attack on Arlathan, never succumbing - despite losing over half of their empire in the Dales. They have troops, ships, generals – and yes, _magic_. But they are clearly doing **something** right. Perhaps the time has come to fight fire with fire.”

 

“That is... surprising coming from you, Commander,” the voice was hesitant and uneasy, a perfect match for the rounded noble who was much the same.

 

Cullen's jaw clenched, the sharpness of his gaze directed at Alistair instead of the one who spoke. The king took a controlled breath, trying to quell his guilt with little success.

 

“Then perhaps your surprise is a reason to **listen**. I have...” Cullen paused, taking a laden breath, “ _More_ than ample cause to detest magic, but we cannot hold out forever. We must fight, or we will fall, just as the rest of Thedas. Whether or not you believe in this prophecy of the Oracle, the **reality** is that Tevinter is closing in and we have no hope of coming out on the other side unscathed.”

 

The table erupted with immediate discourse, some parties murmuring in agreement while the others shouted their disapproval.

 

“From what _I_ hear, the Empire is putting a great deal of pressure on the members of the Senate. How do we know they are even _capable_ of a continued fight?”

 

“ _What_ assurances do we _have_?”

 

“ _Why_ do you think they will listen?”

 

“How do you know they haven't already sold themselves?”

 

“Because,” the voice that carried from the doorway was distinctly feminine, carrying the gentle lilt of an Orlesian accent, “We have an agent in the employ of the Herald.”

 

“L-Lady Nightingale!” Half of the men in the room straightened in attention, noticeably nervous. Alistair couldn't see her, but already knew she was smirking before she rounded his chair.

 

“ _The Herald_?” Howe asked incredulously. He was always the most foolish. Alistair could not restrain his smug grin as the man shrunk beneath the intensity of Leliana's glare. “T-they are simply a _vigilant_ e. They have no _armies_.”

 

“Not _yet_ ,” she said cryptically, eyes darting around the table, daring another to speak. None did. Alistair had to smother a laugh. “But they are gathering influence quickly – far more quickly than I would have ever believed possible. According to my sources, they have ties in the Senate, the temples, and many of the noble houses of Arlathan.” She paused, placing a sheaf of paper on the table, rolled and tied. She gingerly plucked a piece of parchment from the bundleflattening it against the polished surface with gloved hands. It was a map.

 

“Apparently the Herald has been busy. While we have been here wasting precious time squabbling amongst ourselves as how to proceed, they have deployed scouts in every territory – including Tevinter. I have reliable information that this _vigilante_ ,” her sea-green eyes met Howe's across the table, shining with amusement, “Is _also_ seeking the aid of the Crows and Red Jenny herself. The Herald does not aim to keep the Empire out of Arlathan - they seek to topple the Imperium altogether. Quite a bit more than a _vigilante_ , no?” Her final question was light, but her gaze could cut steel.

 

“And what benefit do we get from such an alliance? Here I thought we were discussing joining with Arlathan, not some upstart revolutionary,” Teagan grunted bitterly, eyes downcast and fixed firmly on the map and the marked territories.

 

It had been Leliana's plan. Alistair nodded for her to continue her explanation.

 

“To join with the Herald is to join with Arlathan,” she said. “The Herald has the backing of the people and the majority of the Senators, even if they will not speak it aloud. Their influence is spreading, and my scouts report refugees flocking to their banner in droves. No armies _yet_. With more influence will come greater numbers,” she opened her mouth to say more, but paused, again glancing back at the king, as if for permission.

 

He inclined his head.

 

“Though it is my belief that this is a war best fought in the shadows.”

 

There was an outbreak of irritated muttering around the table.

 

“ _Let her speak_ ,” Alistair commanded, thoroughly exasperated with the incessant arguments.

 

“Tevinter has proven they can crush nearly any army. Orlais was proof of that. And as such, we should attempt a different strategy.”

 

“ _Shadows_ , bah,” Howe grunted, crossing his arms in irritation. “We are men of _war_ , Lady Nightingale, not of secrets and subterfuge.”

 

“Of course not,” she said, a light giggle bubbling from her lips, “I was not suggesting such a thing. My agents are much more suited to the task than your soldiers, Arl Howe. Never you fear.” Leliana tossed him a saucy wink, and the man paled. Alistair couldn't help but admire the way she wielded intimidation so flawlessly, able to set even these men of steel on edge with something as simple as a wink. Granted, it was weighted with _more_. Everything she did was always weighted with _more._ Ever in control, their Nightingale.

 

“Well, please do enlighten us then,” Fergus said, a brow raised in expectation.

 

“If this alliance goes as planned,” she began, pulling another sheet of parchment from the pile, “Then once armies are raised, they will act as a main force distraction.”

 

“A distraction,” one of the nobles repeated flatly, “A distraction for what?”

 

Leliana arched a brow, a small smirk playing at the corner of her lips. “Do try to follow. Repeating myself is not a favored outcome.” The man blanched and swallowed hard, the line of it down his throat clearly visible. “It will be a distraction from what we would not have seen by enemy eyes. While our soldiers fight, we would send a small, elite strike force into the heart of Tevinter itself.”

 

She plucked several more slips of paper from her tied bundle, sliding them to the members of the council. “We have several scout reports of high priority targets - their schedules, their slaves, their homes. We already have nearly everything we need to make significant headway, gentlemen.”

 

“Save numbers,” Cullen finally said, leaning back in his chair with his arms crossed tightly over his chest.

 

“And reliable members for such a strike force,” Leliana added, carefully assessing the nobles as they read the provided correspondence. “Though it is my hope an alliance with the Herald shall provide ample opportunity for both.”

 

“I still don't understand why we need to ally with this _Herald_ instead of the heads of the city themselves! Too often it is seen – the well-meaning revolutionary who discovers that changing the world was suddenly a little too much effort. How do we know this won't be exactly the same?”

 

“How do you know it will?” Leliana asked gently, rising to her full height, “Either way, we don't have much of an option. Arlathan will never ally with us openly. They have a tenuous peace with the Imperium at the moment, and even have Tevinter citizens housed within their walls. It is self-preservation, of course, but to make an alliance with Ferelden would see that peace shattered and their city diminished to rubble.”

 

The table erupted in noise, and the king had to fight the urge to roll his eyes, settling instead for covering them with a gloved hand as he sighed heavily.

 

“ _Why_ were _we_ not informed?” Teagan demanded, slamming his open palm on the wood, “Elven territory is all that stands between the Imperium and the Frostbacks! They may already be _through!_ ”

 

“Your scouts are not the only ones patrolling the mountains, Teagan,” Alistair said, ceasing the heated debates with a wave of his hand. “The paths through the Frostbacks have always been my primary concern. I tripled the patrols the moment the Imperium began pressing closer. We would know if more than a few isolated spies got through.”

 

“We should have _known_ , _king_.” Howe nearly spat.

 

“Right, and you would prefer that news in a letter, I take it?” Alistair snapped, leaning forward, “I had several reasons for calling this meeting, that issue among them.” He closed his eyes, entreating himself to take a calming breath and regain his bearings. _Maker_ , he hated these gatherings.

 

“You will treat your king with the _respect_ he is due,” Cullen suddenly spoke, his voice carrying a dangerous edge. Alistair met his eyes in silent thanks.

 

“What, and his little _attack dog_ now deigns to give me orders?” Howe sneered.

 

The gathered party again devolved into chaos with shouted threats and senseless clamor, many leaping to the defense of the Commander. Alistair could feel his head beginning to pound in earnest as he tried to breathe through the anger. It threatened to blind him with its intensity - heart hammering behind his chest and clouding his vision with red. They did not respect him. It was no secret, nor did he blame them. He had no head for politics and had never been meant to rule. But the role belonged to him, and no amount of resentment would see it gone.

 

“ _Enough!_ ” he roared, shoving himself to his feet, chair scraping against the stone. He heard the whine of his hounds somewhere behind, no doubt startled at his sudden display. “I will have _order!”_ The nobles fell into shocked silence as his gaze roved over them, hard and unforgiving. “I am your _king._ It would appear you _all_ need the reminder.” He met Leliana's eyes briefly, something akin to pride gleaming within.

 

_Good._

 

“I value your counsel and input, gentlemen, but do not forget just _who_ rules here. I created this council so that you all may be made aware of issues that affect the entirety of Ferelden and take part in how they are resolved. I can _just_ as easily dissolve it and be quite the happier for it!” His gaze swept over them all again, nostrils flaring subtly with the forcefulness of his breaths.

 

 _They_ will _respect me._

 

“This council was created because of _my_ respect for you and the lands you rule. It is my belief that a _wise_ king - a _good_ king - will allow the people he rules to have a say in how it is done. Do _not_ mistake my courtesy as ineptitude. I am _more_ than capable of making decisions of this nature without any of you present and squawking like territorial geese! It would be _wise_ not to test me further.

 

“Now, we _will have_ civil discourse. If you have nothing constructive to add to our discussion, I would recommend keeping your slimy, greedy mouths shut. Should you forget to restrain yourselves,” he looked pointedly at Howe, “Then you will be escorted from the castle grounds and banned from re-entry until the proceedings come to a close. Do I _make myself clear_?”

 

A few furtive glances were exchanged across the table, accompanied by the occasional low mutter. Alistair nearly growled. Every regret he ever had about forming the council seemed to rush forth at once, flooding his mind with unwelcome input. He had _meant_ what he said. The reason he formed it was sound - he would not see himself a tyrant by ignoring what they had to say.

 

“Do I make myself _clear_?” he asked again, the grit of frustration working its way into his voice.

 

“Yes, my king,” they all answered in unison, an uncomfortable silence settling over the hall.

 

Let them stew. _He_ was the one in charge, whether they liked it or not.

 

He exhaled shakily, pushing back from the table. “Good, then,” he said, gesturing to Leliana as he lowered himself back into his chair. He almost missed her amused grin.

 

“We will be traveling to Arlathan to meet this Herald. My agent has already reported that they are receptive to listening and she has given us a time and location to meet our mysterious vigilante,” she explained.

 

“Who is this _we_?” Fergus asked carefully, eyeing the king with apprehension. Alistair cocked a brow, a smirk inadvertently tugging at his lips.

 

“Myself, an agent of our dear Nightingale, and Commander Cullen,” he said, making a point not to look at the latter mentioned. Cullen would be _furious_ , he knew. He decided he'd much rather avoid the guilt that would no doubt plague his visage the moment he looked upon his friend's face. He could _feel_ the man's penetrative gaze already.

 

There was a rumble of confusion that rose among the nobles.

 

“ _You_ would go yourself?” Howe asked incredulously, apparently too shocked to bother with a snarky retort.

 

“Who better to represent Ferelden than her dashing king?” Alistair asked with a keen grin. They did not seem amused. “Look,” he sighed, “There are far too many things that are uncertain. With an alliance this risky, I would know exactly what we are getting into. Reports, while helpful, can only tell so much and are easily altered. And who can reassure me that whoever I send to represent me won't completely bungle up the whole affair and put us at war with the Elves as well as the Imperium?” At the silence, he nodded, “Exactly. No one can. So it's best if I go and see that it's properly attended.”

 

“With respect, Alistair, you are too important.”

 

“I'm flattered, _really_. But I have full faith that Fergus will see to the throne well while I am away.” Choosing the youngest and most inexperienced of the group would certainly cause a stir, but Leliana had assured him Fergus was the best choice. He was the most patient and trustworthy of the bunch, and conveniently had competent family to oversee the matters of his estate.

 

“M-me?” Fergus stammered. There seemed to be a murmur of agreement that flowed through the room. Though, after his little display, Alistair doubted they would question his decision outright.

 

“Yes, _you_. From what I understand, your sister and her knight husband already oversee much of Highever while you tend to your ships. Melora can oversee matters of land and estate, and you can have someone train Ser Gilmore to see to the ships in your absence.”

 

“B-but Melly – Melora – is nearly eight months with child, king.”

 

Alistair _almost_ snorted.

 

“You say that as if it will slow her down. Your sister is the most fiery, headstrong, _stubborn_ woman I have ever met in my entire life. If I'm remembering correctly, any sort of idleness is bound to drive her to madness. With people fussing over her pregnancy, I'm sure she would leap at the opportunity to have more to do with her time,” he paused, “And be less prone to murder, I'd imagine.” A badly smothered laugh came from one of the other nobles, a known friend of the woman.

 

Fergus pinned the man with a hard glare until he regained his composure and flushed under Cousland's scrutiny.

 

“My king, I am hardly the most qual-” he began, immediately cut off.

 

“You are who I've chosen. That's all there is to it. We are leaving in a week’s time, and I will see that you are educated on how to hold the throne before I set off.” The air in the room grew uneasy, thick with tension and swallowed words. Many around the table were clearly struggling to hold back their thoughts on the matter. Alistair glanced between them.

 

“Does anyone have anything _else_ to add before we adjourn?” Leliana asked, appearing to take far too much pleasure in their discomfort. Teagan shuffled in his seat for a moment before leaning forward.

 

“You're sure this is the best course of action?”

 

Alistair's face softened. They were all afraid – how could they not be? This was their home, their land, their families and lives. The threat the Imperium posed was no longer a distant peril. It was very real, and nearly on their shores. Though brash and hard, the men in the room were only human. They were all fiercely proud. To even admit that this was a battle that they could not win alone was a feat. For them to agree to an alliance with a people many Fereldens despised was extraordinary. Alistair could see his fear echoed in the eyes of every person in the room.

 

“No, I'm not. But I would rather take this risk than stand at the front of a war we will never win on our own.” He paused, turning back at the sound of a bright chortle from the far hall, a round-cheeked face peering around the corner with large amber eyes. “Our children deserve a future.”

 

“Maker guide us,” Teagan said with a heavy sigh, rising from his chair.

 

“Indeed,” Cullen added, voice sharp and gaze pinned firmly on Alistair.

 

The others began to rise as well, muttering muted farewells and inclining their heads to their king as they shuffled from the room.

 

“Papa!” A high voice squealed as the toddler weaved through the departing nobles on chubby legs. Many of the men looked upon the boy with fond smiles and gentle laughter, though subdued by the troubled mood that followed them. Alistair tried to shake off his own, managing to summon a bright smile as he scooped his son into his arms. The delighted laugh that bubbled from the boy's lips warmed him considerably.

 

“Well, you two were unusually forthcoming with information this afternoon,” The underlying irritation in Cullen's words was impossible to ignore. Alistair tried not to sigh, opting instead to pull a face at the toddler in his arms. He knew this conversation was coming, but after the debacle of a meeting, he was hoping it wouldn't be so soon. “Is it wise to give so much away?”

 

“Did we?” Alistair asked, thick with exaggerated confusion as he looked over to Leliana, busying herself with straightening her papers.

 

“Good question,” she said with a smile and mischievous tilt of her head.

 

“I am not in the mood,” Cullen snapped, leaning back in his chair.

 

Leliana raised a delicate eyebrow. “Just how much do you think we gave, Commander?” she asked, voice loaded with false innocence.

 

“ _Maker's breath_. Scout movements, reports, sensitive plans – don't you suspect duplicity? Why would you divulge that much?” He raked a hand through his hair in agitation.

 

“My dear Commander, after all of the years we've worked together, I would think you'd know me by now,” Leliana teased, neatly tucking the loose parchment back into her bundle. Alistair pulled another face at his son, smiling inwardly at the exchange. Cullen huffed, but said nothing.

 

“The Herald has no scouts in Tevinter, and neither do we.”

 

Alistair watched the other man's brow furrow.

 

“You... falsified the reports?”

 

“Of course I did.”

 

“And the plans?”

 

“Mostly true. Consider, if you will, Commander, what exactly it is I do. I know every member of the council more intimately than they know themselves. I know their schedules, their hobbies, their secrets, who they are sneaking away from their wives to see at three in the morning. I have eyes on them at all times. I do not _suspect_ duplicity – I expect it. I provided them with seemingly sensitive intel, two pieces of which have gone missing, by the by. That, combined with a king they see as hasty and inexperienced, can already go a long way. But people are rash when angry, especially when such anger is silenced.” Her gaze slid to Alistair at the last, a sly grin on her lips.

 

Cullen's eyes widened. “You planned all of this,” he stated, albeit with an air of disbelief.

 

“They resent me for having more power than they do, when many of them are more experienced. I have the backing of the people and they cannot dethrone me, so what is an aspiring usurper to do?” Alistair couldn't help the smug smile that colored his features, swinging the toddler up onto his shoulders.

 

“By supplying them with false reports and information, you will ferret out the one passing it along,” Cullen pressed his lips in a tight line, clearly impressed despite his continued anger. “So the look? As if asking him if it was okay to speak? You never ask for permission,” he said, turning back to Leliana.

 

“Fuel,” she said simply, adjusting a glove, “To make him seem the fool for wanting to give away so much information.”

 

“If they continue to see me as weak, they will want me gone all the more.”

 

“People get careless when they think their superiors know next to nothing. Makes my job even easier.”

 

“One would think people would learn not to underestimate you, Leliana,” Cullen managed a small smile.

 

“Oh, please. I am a woman, and a lovely one at that. All I have to do is bat my eyelashes and men will believe me to be nothing more than a simpering twit,” she shrugged. “Not that I mind. You would not believe the secrets I've uncovered simply because a man dismissed my intelligence.”

 

“So these plans of yours? You said they were mostly true. How does letting them have that information help us?”

 

“It actually helps us a great deal. Tevinter will be so busy looking in every shadowed corner for some imagined invasion, that the team we choose will be able to walk right past their snooping noses in broad daylight. Why would they look where there is no perceived threat?” Leliana was positively beaming. “And with the news of an attempted alliance with the Herald, the Imperium will likely reassert their efforts to convert the remainder of the Senate – thus turning a blind eye to the Herald's machinations.”

 

“Aren't you glad she's on our side?” Alistair asked with a chuckle.

 

“Yeah!” came the subsequent squeal from his shoulders. Alistair bounced him gently until he was collapsing on his father's head in a fit of giggles.

 

“How do we proceed?” Cullen asked, eyes on the boy and a small smile tugging at his lips.

 

“Walking into Arlathan looking so clearly Ferelden will see you found out in the space of an hour. You will both travel in disguise as a Tevinter dignitary and his bodyguard, taking up residence in one of the noble estates outside of the city. I am working out which one. An ally of the Herald would be preferable so you will not both be required to stay in disguise for the entirety of your visit. Discovering which nobles are true allies and which just act the part is proving more difficult than anticipated.”

 

“Wait,” Alistair dragged out the word, the implications of her plan suddenly hitting home. “You never said anything about _disguise_.”

 

“Finding the correct attire, lining your eyes with kohl, and pigmenting your hair are all things easily done. It was a... late addition to the plan, I admit, but a necessary one.”

 

“Do you forget that we know nothing of Tevinter or how citizens are supposed to act?” Cullen asked, voice tinged with exasperation as he crossed his arms. Leliana narrowed her eyes, though a good-natured smile remained on her lips.

 

“Of course not. Luckily for you, Commander, you will not need to act any differently than you already do. The aloof yet ever alert persona you have crafted works quite well.” His nostrils flared at the subtle dig. “It is our king who will need to be groomed - easy enough. The agent that is to accompany you knows much about Tevinter customs, having once been a slave herself. I am quite loathe to part with her, actually. She is my best, but she begged to go.”

 

Alistair frowned. Of course she would have come up with something better. It only irked him that she had not decided to discuss such a choice with him. He was no diplomat, nor an actor, and while he saw the necessity of stealth, the dishonesty of it rubbed him in an unpleasant way. Better than being slaughtered and placed on a pike at first sight, he supposed, but to be blindsided like this the night before their departure?

 

“Leliana,” he said carefully, giving her a pointed look.

 

“It was not an addition until just before the meeting began, Alistair. You would have known otherwise, I assure you.”

 

He sniffed in displeasure, returning to bouncing the boy on his shoulders.

 

“Though, speaking of things unsaid...” She glanced between the men with a meaningful look before gathering up her things. “I will see to it that the preparations for your journey are in place and that Harding is briefed. Until tomorrow, gentlemen,” she said with a casual wave of her hand, retreating from the room.

 

The tension that settled over them after she had gone was so palpable that even the toddler on Alistair's shoulders began to whimper with uncertainty. The silence stretched, neither of them willing to be the first to speak. Alistair lowered the boy into his arms, holding him close as he looked everywhere but at his friend - who was, no doubt, feeling betrayed. The guilt roiled in his stomach until he was sure he would be sick, sweat trickling down the back of his neck.

 

“Why?” The word sliced through the quiet like a knife, barbed and _hurt_. “You know what I was forced to endure. You-” Cullen raked his hands through his hair, mussing it thoroughly as he paced in front of the fireplace. “Why?” And damned if the broken sound of his voice didn't send a fresh lance of guilt right through Alistair's heart.

 

“You are the only one I trust entirely,” Alistair said gently, apology clear in his tone. How could he find the words to express his sorrow?

 

“You should have told me.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“I deserved to know.”

 

“Yes.”

 

Cullen's gaze snapped up, fire and confusion and pain mingling in their depths. He appeared haunted, and Alistair supposed he was. Haunted by the memories of terrors and heartache he never should have had to endure at the hands of mages. He was wrong in asking this of the Commander. To subject him to a world where magic was commonplace... this mission was an abuse Alistair despised himself for bestowing.

 

“If there was anyone else, I would have-”

 

“I deserved to _know_.”

 

“I know,” Alistair whispered, “I'm sorry.”

 

Cullen shook his head, staring down into the flames. “I suspect we are leaving tomorrow to throw off the information?” He asked, voice clipped. At Alistair's nod of assent, he sighed and turned away, “Then I will see to my own preparations. King,” he bowed stiffly before turning on his heel, striding from the room with purpose.

 

“Unca!” The toddler squealed from his arms, reaching for the Commander, whining when he was ignored. Alistair patted his head.

 

“Let's go find your mother,” he said, attempting a smile that didn't reach his eyes.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your patience as I hammered this out! This was a challenging chapter to write on a number of fronts, but I am quite pleased with how it came out!
> 
> Millions of thanks to my brilliant beta, Keturagh, without whom this would be a total mess. She is a genius and you should check out her writings if you haven't already!
> 
> Time to beg for comments!!! Guys they are my lifeblood when I write. I crave feedback, even if that feedback is in the form of a single exclamation point! If you've already left kudos, please consider leaving a comment as well. They make my day and make writing the next bits much easier.
> 
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> http://silent-of-spirit.tumblr.com
> 
> And if you like what I write, consider buying me a coffee to go towards my medical expenses <3  
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> Thank you for reading!


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